Slash
by BellatrixLestrangey
Summary: Azula is Kuchisake-Onna (the slit mouth woman) and comes back to avenge herself.


**I got this idea while watching BiS' 'Stupig' music video, which was probably inspired by Kuchisake-Onna. It kind of got me thinking, but what if Azula was Kuchisake? So I typed it.**

* * *

Azula's room was thick with silence. The sun was well on its way down, even so, she hadn't bothered to light any lanterns. She pulled the sheet away from the mirror, revealing a dingy, cracked thing. She hadn't bothered with it since trying to break it in the first place. She didn't want to admit it, but her heart was pounding. She came to stand before the mirror, just the same way she had before she broke it. And with the same glowering glare. But the glare fell away in anticipation of what she was about to do. With trembling hands slowly unraveled the bandages wrapped around her mouth. The regret to follow was immediate. The woman she stared at wasn't her. Not quite. Azula knew that she should be happy, that she probably shouldn't have survived at all. But staring at a face so horrifyingly marred brought her to tears. She touched her cheek, rather the place where it would have been had her mouth not been slashed to her ear on the right and near that on the left. She crumpled to the floor, remembering the night all over again.

 _The night was hot, the summer heat nearly over powering. In other words it was a prime night for a party and she was more than in the mood. After landing herself in an institution and making a rather full recovery, she felt as if she owed it to herself to have a good time. To be able to forget, even for a moment, everything she's been through. Zirin and the others would be there any minute._

 _She appeared with her braids unraveled and her long hair loose and flowing. Azula realized for the first time, that she's never seen Zirin with her hair down before. And Zirin probably hasn't seen her with her hair down either. That was how their evening started; with flattering remarks about each other's clothing and hair._

 _It all seemed so simple._

 _So normal._

 _Azula was a few drinks in when Chan got the nerve to slide into their conversation. The last time she'd seen him was summers ago before the comet. That seemed like such a long time ago, which was probably why it was so easy for her to assume that he had forgotten about her. Truth be told, in the hectic jumble that was her life, she nearly forgot about him._

 _Maybe it was the drinks thinking, but now that he was older, he had a certain charm about him. There was a certain slickness to his voice that wasn't there before. A grander demeanor, one that was very nearly equal to her own. He shared stories of his father and of life on Ember Island for quite some time before sauntering off to entice more women._

 _"He isn't too bad." One of her friends remarked, the memory of which one was foggy._

 _"Yes, he'd make for an interesting night." Azula agreed. She had looked across the room in the direction of Chan. She found out that she was wrong about the women thing—he was off in a corner speaking with Ruon-Jian. She pondered whether or not she should go for round two, now that she had polished her social skills._

 _Zirin looked up from her drink and told Azula to go for it. Before giving her a not so subtle shove towards him._

 _Azula finished her drink and made her approach. Her attempt at flirting was infinitely more successful—and perhaps she owed that to the drinks too. Their conversation progressed over one more glass and a few more songs. Halfway through one more song, Azula suggested going somewhere quieter. She seemed to have a habit of being her own undoing. But she couldn't quite resist the way her ran his hand through her hair and hoped that the feeling was mutual. They escaped the party scene, ditching it for a serene time on the beach. She caught Zirin's eyes as they departed. Her companion offered her an encouraging wink and a thumbs up._

 _If only she knew._

 _Chan was indeed, a good time. He cracked a few jokes…jokes that were actually witty. She didn't have to force a laugh that time. The sound of the waves, crickets, and a few hog-monkey chirps from the tree line gave the only sounds She kissed him then, for the second time. She let herself fall to the sand on her back. Her swimsuit still tied tightly—according to the drinks, too tightly. She pulled him on top of her, hoping to fix that. She brushed her pointer over his cheek and he brushed her bangs out of her eyes._

 _It was going so smoothly until he pulled out the knife._

 _Maybe if she had expected it, she would have fought back._

 _Instead, partially due to the drinks and mostly due to her shock—she lay there and let him slash at her mouth. When he finished carving he gave the knife a powerful toss, the ocean swallowed it right up. He smiled at his work and in the same smooth tone that lured her in began calling her a bitch and informing her that he'd been waiting a long time to do that. Explaining that the damage she and her friends caused all those years ago was the reason he had to work so hard to regain his dominate social standing. Humiliation, he claimed, can change a man._

 _"Only a weak man." Azula took one whispered jab. For it, she received a jarring kick to the head._

 _He began to walk away, turning around one time to kick a cloud of sand in her face. She didn't cry until after her was out of earshot. Too weak and too buzzed to do anything else she remained there, dazed and numb._

 _Zirin found her an hour or so later with a decent puddle of blood around her head. The sand was soaked with it. Though Azula had run out of tears to shed, Zirin was practically sobbing as she took her into her arms. Most of what she said was lost on Azula, but she could tell by the tone and the apologizing that Zirin felt like the whole thing was her fault._

 _She couldn't reply, all she could do was lay limp in Zirin's arms, feeling blood run drizzle down her chin._

The path stood desolate. Chan stood there shivering, the air was unsettlingly cold for a Fire Nation night. It has been awhile since he had been in the capital and he never remembered it being this chilly nor misty. He grumbled to himself about never going to the capital again, the mainland was overrated anyhow. He kicked at a rock and continued on his way back to his room at the local inn. Not a single other soul passed him by. At the flicker of one of the overhanging paper lanterns, Chan considered that perhaps he should have stayed at the party. It was already very late at night he may as well have stayed and got trashed with Ruon Jian. The rest of the string of paper lanterns was swaying precariously in the wind. He could tell that a storm was stirring. Storms in the Fire Nation were always pretty brutal. He pushed himself on anyhow, his inn wasn't too far away. The first droplets of rain pelted his face and he scowled.

Lighting exploded not quite in the distance and in its flash he could see a figure. She stood there forebodingly. She had a firm grip on something, it gleamed in the moonlight. The figure took a few steps closer, her footfalls were the only sound—the crunch of boot on stone. Each one was taken with a hint of drama so as to emphasize the noise. Chan noticed as she closed their proximity that she was probably holding a knife. His stomach lurched. How had he forgotten that he was _this_ close to _her_ home? Gulping, he knew that she could sense his anxiety. He could see it in her eyes and her entire posture that she was thrilled.

In less time than he thought it should have taken, the princess was an arm's reach away from him. From this nearness, he saw a glint in her eyes that wasn't there the last time he saw her. The half-psychotic twinkle he has, up until then, only heard rumors of.

The lighting burst again. With its assistance he could now see that what he had thought was a knife was a pair of scissors.

He had the audacity to must up a, "please no."

She didn't strike though. Instead she closed what little space was left between them. She stood there unmoving for quite some time her chest rising and falling steadily, he could hear each scarf-muffled breath. He didn't dare do any breathing of his own. Still she didn't attack instead she brought her fingers to the silk. Agonizingly slowly, she lowered the scarf. It was too dark to see much, especially since, by this time, the wind had clamied most of the lanterns. But he could make out what looked like rough bumpy scars. Lightning sizzled once again, reveling to him the extent of damage he'd done her. She had no scars at all, there was no tissue to be scarred. Chan was shaking, his frantic eyes landing on the scissors.

In a voice that was both alluring and horrifying—tinged by a creeping madness—she asked him, "do you think I'm beautiful."


End file.
